Veterans of Rome (Book 9 of the Veteran of Rome Series)

by William Kelso

  But enough about my own troubles. I write to you, dear friend, to warn you that Nigrinus has taken your court victory rather badly. I have heard it on good authority that he now intends to personally come to Britannia. I do not know when he will go, for at this time of the year the Alpine passes will still be closed by snow. However, he may take a ship to Massalia and travel overland from there. It’s hard to say. You should however expect him in the spring. His official purpose in visiting Britannia, I am told, is to try and secure the support of Britannia’s three legionary legates and their troops. Nigrinus is hoping that with their support, he may be able to confront Hadrian. I suspect his mission will fail, for Hadrian will not have been so stupid as to have neglected placing his own supporters in high military command. The legates of the Second, Sixth and Twentieth will no doubt, by now all be led by men loyal to Hadrian.

  Nigrinus still wishes you dead Marcus. I suspect that in addition to his official travel plans, he will also be coming to personally pay you a visit at your home on Vectis. You should make what preparations you can. Your devoted and loyal friend Paulinus, Chief Magistrate of the Imperial Fiscus.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Veterans of Rome

  The shrill peals of laughter drifted away across the muddy fields. It was noon on a fresh spring day and, out in the courtyard of the villa, Dylis’s children were shrieking with laughter as they watched Cunomoltus’s and Petrus’s puppet show. The two men were standing behind a wagon, hidden by a curtain and were performing an outrageous comedy play, using crude puppets on strings. Close by, surrounded by some of his slaves, Marcus was sitting in a chair in the sunshine and grinning at the performance. At his side, Kyna, her hand resting on her husband’s shoulder, was chuckling, as she stood watching the scene.

  The winter snows had not entirely melted and, across the fields and in the nearby forest, patches of snow remained but there was no doubt that spring was in the air and with it, the promise of new life and warmer longer days. The mood amongst the spectators was upbeat. Surrounded by buildings on three sides, a long wooden table and dozens of chairs had been brought out and placed in the middle of the courtyard. Upon it lay numerous food dishes and jugs of drink, all in preparation for the feast and party later, to which all, including the slaves, were invited; to celebrate the end of the long, dark winter. Near to the gates and the boundary fence, Jowan had appeared, clutching a fat pheasant in his hands whilst his bow and quiver were slung over his shoulder. He was leading the three excited hunting dogs back to the farm. Carefully he skirted along the edge of the rows of sharpened wooden stakes that had been driven into the ground and were pointing outwards at an angle away from the farm.

  Sitting on the ground around Marcus, the slaves suddenly cried out, hollering in approval and started to clap as the puppet show finally came to an end. Marcus grinned and joined the calls of approval before turning to look at Aledus, who was limping towards him from the direction of one of the barns. The former legionary was accompanied by the slave girl, who had come with them from Rome. The heavily pregnant girl was clutching and stroking the black cat, which they had also been brought back from Rome. For a moment Marcus eyed the couple. The slave girl was his property, and, by rights, he could have charged Aledus with damaging his property. But that was a stupid idea. It would be better if he agreed to free the girl and allow her to marry Aledus. The love between those two was clear to everyone. Still toying with the idea, Marcus looked up, as Aledus came up to him.

  “We’re ready to give you the demonstration now Sir,” Aledus said with a grin. “Shall I call out the men?”

  “Go ahead,” Marcus said, with a curt nod.

  In response Aledus turned around and whistled, using his fingers and mouth. A moment later the spectators in the courtyard gasped, as one of the barn doors was flung open and one by one the dozen mercenaries who Aledus had recruited the previous summer, came out. The burly, tough-looking men were clad in a dazzling and exotic assortment of Roman and foreign body armour and were carrying surplus legionary shields, spears, battle-axes, spiked clubs and swords. Silently, in single file, they strode towards the small makeshift arena that had been erected in the courtyard and, as they did, the family and the slaves rushed over to the circular wooden fence that stood in for the Coliseum of Rome. On Aledus’s shouted order, the mercenaries came to a halt, smoothly turned to face Marcus and Kyna and bowed.

  “Those who are about to get their arses kicked, salute you Sir,” Aledus called out, as he turned to look at Marcus with a big grin.

  “I look forward to it,” Marcus called out.

  An excited stir swept through the gathered spectators, as the first pair of mercenaries dumped their weapons onto the ground retaining only their shields, ducked into the arena and picked up the wooden training swords, that had been placed there. With a grin, the two men turned to face each other in a mock gladiatorial combat. Then with surprising speed, the two clashed, striking and lunging at each other with their wooden weapons. A roar of encouragement rose up from the spectators as the two men grunted, moved, jabbed and blocked each other, as if they were fighting for their lives under the gaze of the emperor and fifty thousand spectators. Soon the spectators, standing around the small, marked-off space had broken into two groups, each cheering on their favourite fighter with loud enthusiastic cries.

  Marcus was eagerly watching the contest and chuckling at the men’s antics, when suddenly from the corner of his eye, he noticed movement beyond the boundary fence and the rows of sharpened wooden spikes, at the edge of one of the fields. A huge, black wolf was standing in the muddy field silently gazing at the mock arena. In its mouth the beast was carrying a dead rabbit. Marcus stiffened, and abruptly the colour drained from his face. Slowly he rose to his feet, as he stared at the animal. Out on the edge of the field, the wolf slowly turned its head and for a moment its yellow eyes seemed to be gazing straight at Marcus. Then, as the three hunting dogs began barking wildly, the wolf turned and calmly ambled away towards the forest, clutching the rabbit in its jaws. Around Marcus the cheering of the spectators faltered, and then died away, as all caught sight of the expression on his face.

  “What is it Marcus?” Kyna asked in an urgent voice, as her face turned to alarm.

  “It’s just a wolf from the forest,” Cunomoltus exclaimed, but as he caught sight of Marcus’s expression, he too faltered.

  On his feet, Marcus said nothing as he watched the beast disappear into the forest. His face was ashen. Then abruptly his features hardened. “I am not afraid of you,” Marcus hissed defiantly to himself.

  Before anyone could do anything or say anything, a trumpet rang out across the courtyard and the fields beyond. Startled, the spectators turned in the direction of the watchtower beside the gates, where the slave on watch was standing, clutching his trumpet. There was no need to explain the reason for the warning. Galloping towards them down the uneven farm track was a solitary horseman.

  Striding towards the gates of his property, Marcus’s eyes were suddenly fixed on the horseman, as he recognised the owner of a neighbouring farm.

  “Marcus,” the man cried out in an urgent voice, as he raised his hand. “Marcus, strangers have been spotted on the island. We counted at least thirty to forty armed-men and some of them have horses. They are heading your way.”

  ***

  As the first of the strangers appeared on the track leading to his farm, Marcus, with Indus standing behind him, turned to look down the length of the fence that marked the boundary of his property. The fence itself was not much of a defence and had not been designed to keep people out. It could be broken with one well aimed kick. A few yards beyond it though the rows of dense sharpened wooden stakes extended right around most of the villa and its outhouses, forming a double perimeter. Here and there gaps had been left in the outer defences. In front of the gates however, protecting and blocking the entrance into his property, two heavy but portable wooden anti-cavalry frames had been placed, their rows of sharpened, fi
re hardened and blackened wooden stakes facing outwards.

  Marcus was clad in auxiliary chain mail armour and from his belt hung a sheathed gladius and a pugio, army knife. He was bareheaded, his old, crinkled face was as hard as iron, and his long grey beard fluttered in the breeze. In his hands he was gripping a spear and a small round shield. Gathered around him, Jowan, Cunomoltus, Dylis and Petrus were all armed with an assortment of leather body armour, shields, axes, spears, knives and swords. They looked nervous and tense, as they stared at the approaching horsemen and men on foot who were spreading out across the field, like a dark swarm of insects. Up in the watchtower beside the gates, Kyna, and Dylis’s fifteen-year old son were crouching on the platform. In their hands they were holding bows. Calmly Marcus turned to look at his wife. Kyna had raised her bow and was pointing it at the strangers with trembling hands. As he gazed up at her on her platform Kyna seemed to sense him looking at her and turned in his direction and as she did Marcus smiled with sudden fondness. Kyna’s hands were not trembling out of fear. It was rage.

  At the gates Aledus and his band of mercenaries had gathered together and were stoically peering at the strangers who were slowly advancing towards them. The mercenaries were clad in their body armour, helmets and were gripping their shields and weapons.

  On the ground directly below the watchtower, a party of male slaves had gathered together, armed with scythes, pitch-forks, hammers, stones, knives and whatever weapons they could find. Quickly Marcus turned to look back at the villa. Dylis’s twins, the female slaves and their children were nowhere to be seen. In the middle of the courtyard, the table full of food and drink, prepared for a party stood, looking forlorn, abandoned and forgotten. In the doorway to one of the barns, one of the slave boys, too young to fight, stood bravely grasping the leads of the three dogs and shouting at them. The dogs were barking, their jaws snapping eagerly as they strained at their leads.

  Out on the track and across the fields, the approaching strangers slowly advanced towards the gates and the rows of sharpened stakes. The neighbour had underestimated their numbers Marcus thought. There had to be at least forty armed men, possibly as many as fifty and a third of them seemed to be on horseback. The strangers were clad in dark tunics over which they were wearing coats of chain mail armour. On their heads they were protected by legionary style helmets and they were armed with small, round shields, spears, axes and swords. They looked like they knew what they were doing. Some of the men had hoods drawn across their helmets and all looked well-armed, prepared and confident. Catching sight of Nigrinus riding towards him on a white stallion, Marcus swore softly to himself. Nigrinus was clad in gleaming chainmail armour, sporting a spectacular winged helmet on his head and clutching a spear and, as he spotted Marcus, he calmly veered towards him, surrounded by five mounted bodyguards.

  “You should have run, Marcus,” Nigrinus bellowed, as he lowered his spear and pointed it straight at Marcus. “You should have run!”

  “I am not running from a shit like you,” Marcus roared.

  “Then you are going to die,” Nigrinus bellowed in a furious voice, his eyes gleaming with rage, as spittle flew from his mouth. “I am going to hack you into little pieces right in front of your family’s eyes.”

  “It does not have to be this way,” Marcus roared. “You can still turn around and walk away. You do not have to do this. Go home Nigrinus. Go home.”

  “Home,” Nigrinus yelled as he came to a halt a few yards from the fence. “Home! Only ruin and death await me back in Rome. No, I will not go home. If I am going to die, then I am going to take you with me Marcus. You and I are going to hell together, to burn in the flames of Tartarus for all eternity.”

  “You have lost your mind,” Marcus yelled, glaring at Nigrinus. “But if it is my death that you seek, then I challenge you to single combat. I challenge you Nigrinus to try and kill me, man to man. Have you got the balls to do that? Or has fear and terror reduced what manhood you still claim to have?”

  On his horse Nigrinus laughed. “I am not so stupid as to fall for your tricks Marcus. You betrayed me, you killed my cousin and for that, you are going to die. I have come to take your head Marcus. I have come to slaughter your family and burn your farm to the ground, so that no trace of your existence shall remain. You are finished. You are going to die today, right here.”

  Suddenly from atop the watchtower, a woman screamed; a scream of pure fury and hatred and with such vent, that it sent a chill down everyone’s spine. From her position Kyna took aim, and sent an arrow flying straight at Nigrinus. The aim however was wide and, instead of striking the man, it hit his horse sending Nigrinus tumbling to the ground with a startled cry. Instantly everything descended into chaos. With a loud outraged bellow, Nigrinus’s men charged. As some of the horsemen and men on foot came storming through the gaps in between the rows of sharpened wooden stakes, the ground suddenly gave way beneath them, and with startled, shocked cries, horses, riders and men abruptly went crashing down into the deep camouflaged killing pits and the sharpened wooden stakes that awaited them at the bottom. As beast and man was impaled in the cunningly hidden pits the shrieking and screaming of wounded, dying men and beasts sent flocks of birds rising and fleeing from the nearby trees. Seeing their mounted comrades fate however did not deter the rest of the attackers. Struggling and forcing their way past the sharpened stakes and outer defences Nigrinus’s men came surging forwards in small groups of two and three and within seconds the wooden fence marking the edge of the property had splintered and broken beneath their charge.

  With a roar of his own, Marcus leaped forwards and drove his spear straight into one of the men charging towards him, nearly impaling him. Yanking his spear out of the dying man he swung it at another’s head, knocking him to the ground. At the gates and beside the shattered fence, Aledus and his men seemed to have taken the brunt of the assault. The mercenaries had formed a tight disciplined defensive circle and were standing shoulder to shoulder. There was however no chance of going to their aid. Caught up in fierce hand-to-hand combat, the mercenaries quickly vanished from view, surrounded by a horde of Nigrinus’s men. A chaotic, confused mass of screaming, brawling, battling men was swirling around the gates and the anti-cavalry frames as they stabbed, blocked and hacked at each other. At the base of the watchtower the group of slaves was being pressed backwards, as they desperately tried to fend off the attackers.

  Flinging his spear at a man running towards him, Marcus yanked his gladius, short sword from his belt. Dimly he was aware of Indus at his side, using his shield and sword to block the blows and deadly spear thrusts that were aimed at himself and Marcus. The savage, unrelenting noise of combat filled the villa’s courtyard. Close by, Jowan and Cunomoltus were parrying and fending off three attackers, desperately trying to hold them back but Nigrinus’s men outnumbered them and slowly but steadily, Marcus and his five companions were being driven backwards towards the house and away from the slaves, Aledus and his mercenaries. Blocking a man’s sword thrust, aimed at his chest, Marcus savagely slashed open his attacker’s throat, sending a fine spray of blood shooting through the air. Close by Dylis, with a dead man lying at her feet, was screaming, her face contorted in rage, as she wielded her blood-covered axe with the fury of a mother protecting her children. But, as he blocked another spear thrust at him, Marcus caught sight of Petrus lying on the ground without moving and with blood seeping from a nasty wound to his abdomen.

  Next to Marcus, Indus had begun to sing to himself, a Batavian battle song that only he knew, as with fearless concentration and skill, he fended off the attacks directed at Marcus. At the watchtower the slaves had had enough and had broken, fleeing in panic towards the shelter of the barns with some of Nigrinus’s men in pursuit. Marcus paused, panting from exertion. With the resistance of the slaves broken, it would not be long before Nigrinus would have them surrounded with their backs against the house. Jowan and Cunomoltus were still on their feet, but they were not trained in h
and-to-hand combat like he and Indus. They were not going to hold out much longer. They were going to die and so was Dylis. He had to do something and fast.

  Blocking a sword thrust Marcus kicked his attacker backwards. Up on the watchtower he could hear Kyna screaming, but there was no time to see what was going on. His wife and Dylis’s teenage son were on their own. Suddenly through the chaos and confused fighting, Marcus caught a glimpse of Nigrinus, wearing his winged helmet. Nigrinus was on his feet, standing back from the fighting, protected by his five bodyguards. Four of the guards had dismounted and Nigrinus was shouting and gesturing at the fighting as if he were in command of a legionary cohort and directing a battle. With a hoarse cry Marcus launched himself at the two men blocking his path, forcing them backwards. Then he was past them and storming towards Nigrinus, his sword stained with blood. Anger lent him strength and courage. Here and there a man leapt into his path to try and intercept him, but he drove them backwards with his shield and sword. A moment later Indus appeared behind him, still singing his savage Batavian battle song, his tunic and arms stained in blood. The faithful Batavian bodyguard had loyally followed him into the very thick of the fighting and the heart of the enemy position.